Letting go
by Mysteryguy12
Summary: Just a short Vincent angst piece. Read if you want. Just felt like putting it out there. I must say it's not my best writing by far...If you do read, please review. Later.


I do not own any of the characters or places mentioned here.

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There's a lonely harmonica that wails in the back of my mind. The tune it plays is so sad that I don't know what to do. I want to ask the person playing it, "How can you put into song what I can never in a thousand lifetimes put into words?" but I know that I'm the one playing it anyway. In the back of my mind the mournful song plays on and on. I don't have time to stop for breath and I wonder how I will ever find enough time to play the whole song. This song is my dirge. My lament. Every note is another terrible dream that I try to hide from myself. This one instrument symphony serves to hide me from the things that I know would drive me insane. Things I know I would become; Will become if I don't keep playing.

But it's hard to play this harmonica with just one arm.

One arm of flesh and blood. One arm that courses with life, however undeserved it may be. I hit wrong notes more often now, wrong notes that spark new songs and send me slipping ever closer into the terrible reaches of my own mind. Such a dreadful song. The notes weave themselves into nearly visible patterns on the front wall of my mind. Good lord if I could I would still be crying. Crying because this song is just too damn sad for me or anyone.

But it would be too good to cry.

Crying would mean that I am still human and by now I know I'm not. This song is the only false hope that keeps me wishing that I am. This song is the only thing I have left. A terrible ragged hope standing defiantly against this tide of sadness. It's not enough, not nearly, and I know that.

And in the back of my mind, the harmonica is not the only sound to be heard. There are four voices, all crying out to be heard and accepted. They seem so logical and that is what keeps me playing. If I stopped, I know that I would be able to listen, so I drown out madness with sorrow in this ridiculous struggle to keep my sanity.

Four voices, but only one doesn't speak any words. That one just grunts and snarls. He jumps back and forth, scraping and tearing at the walls I made for them all. If I were ever to let go, that would be the one I would want. The one with freedom. The one so clearly primal that I need to refer to it as the Beast. I want the one without mind, without conscience, without morality and without conviction. I want to be a raving lunatic without malice or feelings. I want to slobber all over and howl to the night and anything else that seems to need some howling.

But that would never be the one. The others would pull with far more strength than he. The Monster. A child's mind, no grip on reality, a being set apart from society. Anger and vengeance, vengeance for something that it doesn't even understand. It wants to kill, to make everyone stop moving so he can just play with them, so he can be one of them. Is that so damn wrong?

Yes. I know it is. I know but it is so hard to hold onto that idea. So impossible and the only thing I can do is hope to drown it out.

And still another speaks up. So human, so logical, so intelligent, so sentient and so incredibly cruel. Take me. I'm the most like you. Human. It sways back and forth, free from moral restraints because it doesn't have morals. It just wants everything dead. And do you know what the worst part about that is? That means I want everyone dead as well. It's just another fraction of my mind. Another emotion of mine blown entirely out of proportion but it's there and it's real and it won't go away no matter how loud the song gets because the roar of the thing its hands is always going to be louder.

It stops becoming whether or not I can drown out the noise and becomes just a feeble last strand that I can hold onto if I'm strong enough. There's a roaring in my ears and I want to grab at them but that would mean letting go. So I can't block out the noise. So I sit and I play until you can't even hear anything else except the laughing and the howling and the roaring of some makeshift murder weapon.

And then it all stops. All of them stop and the music pierces through everything. I look down and see that all three of them have stopped and bowed their heads in respect. I look down and I know that this height advantage won't do anything for me anymore. And the final voice raises its head, stretches its arms…

And unfurls its wings.

Finally I drop the instrument and run. I run and I run but I don't get anywhere and that damn thing is faster than me anyway and it approaches and tears through me. I fall to the ground, with whispers of that tune still playing in my mind. As my eyes slowly glaze over I feel that being smile its toothy grin and say, "You were never that good anyway." And I know that it's not just speaking about the harmonica.

Slowly slipping backwards, falling into the pit to mix and mingle with those other three, I wonder…was it all…ever really worth it?


End file.
